Lit Up
by Phreakycat
Summary: Mike has synesthesia, which turns out to be a blessing, a bit of a curse, and an unconventional way to finally get his boss naked. Contains explicit slash in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Lit Up  
><strong>Chapter: O<strong>ne

**Genre: **H/C, slash

**Word Count: **Roughly 10,000 at current count (but later chapters need some editing).

**Warnings:** Language, overuse of color adjectives, descriptions of a medical issue (epilepsy), graphic sexual content of the slash variety.

**Summary:** Mike has synesthesia, which turns out to be a blessing, a bit of a curse, and an unconventional way to finally get his boss naked.

**A/N 1: ** I have a sort of fascination with synesthesia, which is a neurological condition in which one's senses are unusually linked. Sounds can have a color (as in this fic) or taste, letters or days of the week can have personalities, etc. It's very interesting from an intellectual standpoint. After I was hit by a drunk driver, I experienced a very mild form of synesthesia for about a month due to a head injury. Since then I've really wanted to write a fic about it, so here I am. I took some liberties with the condition for the sake of creative expression, so please don't look at this as a reliable scientific source of information. :) There will also be descriptions of an epileptic seizure later in the story (primarily the build-up and after effects) - this, too, is taken from personal experience. Luckily I only had seizures on and off for about six months after my accident, and it gave me some good fodder for fanfic (silver lining and all that!).

**A/N 2:** This fic is dedicated to **laylabinx**, who is just as crazy about Mike whump as I am, who indulges my many ridiculous prompts at the meme, and who writes consistently awesome H/C fics for Suits. Go check out her work. Seriously. It's awesome!

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><p>Harvey voice is a deep, rich red – it washes over Mike the first time he hears it, a colored ribbon of sound that sends a warm flush down his spine. His own voice when he speaks is a tremulous yellow, weaker and more stressed than the usual gray-blue of his tone, stretched thin under the threat of arrest for possession with intent to distribute. In those tense first moments when they meet, when Mike spills a briefcase of drugs onto the expensive carpet, Harvey quirks his brow and pierces Mike with a considering look. The smooth blood red of Harvey's timbre washes over Mike's quavering off-yellow like an ink, and Mike half suspects the color will stain everything it touches with hints of vermillion.<p>

The air is heavy with danger and possibility, an entire spectrum of color waiting to explode, and Mike knows immediately that this job will be more challenging, more terrifying, and more important than anything else he's done with his pathetic, wasted life so far.

What Mike understands later (but not then) is that his prediction is spot on. Only, he is applying those adjectives to the job when really, he should be applying them to the man himself, Harvey Spector.

Harvey's voice rarely changes its base color, though it tends to vary in shades– today it's an excited fire engine red, the fractal coronas of his words tinged with the intense hue of Harvey's satisfaction as he struts out of court, fresh from their victory in the Gunderson v. Jackson real estate case.

"I hope you were taking notes, kid, because _that _is how you destroy opposing counsel," Harvey says, chest held high. It would look like arrogance on anyone else, but on Harvey it simply looks like truth in advertising, the natural posture of someone who wields power as easily as most people breathe. The lines of his charcoal gray suit sit perfectly on his shoulders, the captivating angle of his trim waist. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a pleased smirk. Harvey is never as happy as when he's won a case, especially when he's won it with style and aplomb.

Mike likes this side of him. Victory brings out Harvey's generous side, his willingness to advise his associate and include him in the afterglow. It's a bit like standing near a blazing fire on a cold night – everything around them seems muted, the colors of other people's conversations faded to pastels next to the crimson gusto of Harvey's pleasure.

"Notes?" Mike scoffs, adjusting his messenger bag on his shoulder as he tries to keep up. "Remember who you're talking to here, Harvey. I could recite the whole trial back to you verbatim if you wanted. You want me to give you a highlights reel? Maybe an instant replay of you flipping their witness? Man, she folded like a bad hand. It was a thing of beauty."

Harvey strides with purpose and confidence, each step a silvery click of sound in Mike's peripheral. Mike's own feet seem to tangle, an ashy, chaotic rhythm overshadowed by Harvey's perfect footfalls. There is hardly a moment spent in Harvey's company that Mike does not feel awkward, fumbling, and sloppy by comparison. It's would be like working for the Statue of David if David had preferred tailored suits over nudity (and doesn't _that _image send Mike's brain straight into dangerous waters).

"It's all about reading people," Harvey tells him, angling his head conspiratorially towards Mike. "Did you see the way she was picking at her nails? They were high-end acrylics, well maintained, expensive. No way a woman who puts that much money into her nails picks at them unless she's got a damn good reason. And she looked down and to the left every time she lied. It was easy to figure out she was lying about the site inspections. Child's play, almost. Right up your alley."

Harvey smirks playfully at Mike and Mike rolls his eyes at the familiar jab. He hadn't noticed her picking her nails, actually, but he _had _noticed the thread of lime green anxiety in her voice every time she lied.

He doesn't tell Harvey that. That's a conversation Mike can't even imagine beginning, a surreal hypothetical that he doubts will ever become reality.

"The look on opposing counsel's face..." he says wryly. "It was like you'd just told him you'd just backed over his dog after fucking his wife."

He nudges Harvey with a friendly elbow, waggling his eyebrows childishly (because these are the roles they play, and they're familiar and easy and fun). Most days Mike knows not to touch Harvey, but when he's fresh off a win like this, the usual boundaries relax and Mike takes full advantage, saving up casual touches and grazes to get him through the dry spells when Harvey is frustrated and stalwart.

Harvey grins toothily, part predatory cat and part gleeful child. The roles blur a little, and something flutters in Mike's gut.

"Glen is an asshole," Harvey says. "He's a half-decent litigator, but he fails at thinking on his feet, every time. Even though he likes to think he's god's gift to law."

"Too bad that title is already claimed," Mike says, and is gratified when Harvey's grin widens. "He won't be able to sit right for a _week _after the thorough spanking you just delivered. If you're not careful, he might sue you for emotional damages. _Your honor_," he says in a tremulous, mocking imitation of opposing counsel (it turns his voice terra cotta), "I can't _even _see _a three-piece suit without suffering flashbacks_."

Harvey actually laughs, a short burst of genuine sound that Mike has never heard from him before. The sound sparkles in Mike's vision like fireworks, and it's _pink_.

For the first time since Mike met Harvey, he _almost _wants to tell him about the synesthesia, just so he can taunt Harvey with the fact that his laugh is magenta pink and shimmery like glitter. Then he imagines the look on Harvey's face, the indignant insistence that would no doubt follow such a proclamation, and remembers why that conversation must remain firmly in the hypothetical.

This moment is warm and perfect and Mike won't ruin it with an awkward announcement about his fucked up brain. He knows how those conversations go – the confused looks, the uneasiness, the way people stare while they try to figure out exactly how different he is. The pity when he has to explain _how _he gained the ability to blend his senses.

He's seen enough of that look on people's faces to last a life time. He doesn't think he could handle seeing it on Harvey's face as well.

So he jokes with Harvey about opposing counsel, basks in the pleased candy apple red of Harvey's voice when he praises Mike's work on the case, and enjoys the bright, brassy colors of Harvey's latest mix for Ray while they ride back to the office.

Harvey gives him briefs to proof for their next case, and a warm, firm hand on his shoulder when he wanders back to his glass-walled fortress of solitude. Mike watches the rainbow oscillation of Pearson Hardman swirl around him while he works, papery whites, frustrated greens, flirty purples, and puncturing grays dancing in a Jackson Pollock display of chaotic energy.

He tells himself that he isn't looking for Harvey's deep, distinctive hue in the mix, waiting to follow it back to the source like it's a tether, a fine red silk thread tied to the center of him, always pulling him in Harvey's direction.

And he can almost, _almost_, believe that.

There are some words that have distinctive flavors when Mike utters them. The word "Grammy" tastes like sugar cookies and a hint of lilac. "Sex" tastes like sugar and hot pepper. "Failure" tastes like gone-by apples and fish, and it makes him gag to say it.

His own name, when he's forced to utter it, tastes like mint with a wash of vinegar and salt, a bitter flavor of disappointment and regret.

It's about two months after he starts at Pearson Hardman that Mike realizes he's beginning to pick up the flavor of his coworker's names.

"Jessica" tastes like espresso and nutmeg, strong and distinct. "Rachel" tastes like maple and curry. "Louis" tastes, surprisingly, like wood smoke and the smell of aged books.

But most distinct, most alluring (unsurprisingly), is Harvey's name.

It's rich, spicy, and complex – Merlot, dark chocolate, and cinnamon. It coats the inside of Mike's mouth when he says it, better than the most expensive wines or the most exotic foods. Mike wants to bite down on it, bury his teeth in it. Sometimes at night he lies awake and says "Harvey, Harvey," into the dark of his room, watching the ocean blue of his voice twist through the darkness like an unfurling vine, the taste of Harvey's name heavy on his tongue, intimate and lingering like a kiss.  
>_<p>

Harvey invites Mike to watch the Yankees game at his condo in October.

"You've been working hard," Harvey tells him (and the spark of approval in his eyes warms Mike in a way that is mildly embarrassing but oh, so satisfying). "Bring the Killerman briefs, we can proof them during commercial breaks. No need to spend another weekend in the office when we could spend it watching baseball."

Mike spends all of Friday night anxiously anticipating the game. This is new territory for them, an unprecedented redrawing of borders. With anyone else, a casual invite to work from home and watch the game would hardly be worth thinking about. But with Harvey, who guards himself like a kingdom under constant siege, it's groundbreaking. Mike is terrified of fucking it up somehow, of losing this tenuous ground he's gained, and he feels on-edge and off-center by the time he arrives at Harvey's doorstep Saturday afternoon.

Mike is immediately, thoroughly shocked by two things when he arrives: Harvey has a _glass fucking elevator_ in his condo (further blurring the lines between "lawyer" and "pimp mack daddy"), and Donna is there, wearing a fitted Yankees jersey and holding a bowl of popcorn.

Mike feels something suspiciously like jealousy and disappointment twinge low in his belly. He swiftly squashes the train of thought that wants to explore why Harvey's gorgeous assistant is standing barefoot in his condo. He squashes the train of thought that wants to explore why he even _cares_ with far more vigor.

"Harvey," Donna shouts, casual pony tail sweeping over her shoulder as she turns her head, "Someone left a puppy on your doorstep! Can we keep him, pretty please?"

"No," Harvey's voice sounds from deeper in the room, amusement tingeing it brick red.

"Too late," Donna says, shoving the bowl of popcorn into Mike's hands with a wink and stepping aside to let him in. "I've already fed him." Her voice is teal with undertones of emerald green.

"You're responsible for the inevitable vet bills, then," Harvey says, appearing with a beer for Mike as they make their way to the lavish living room. Harvey is wearing jeans (jeans that are clearly more expensive than Mike's entire wardrobe combined, but still, _jeans_). Mike feels his world view tilt a little on its axis. He determinedly does _not_ stare at the obscenely hot way the denim sits on Harvey's ass.

"If either of you even _think_ about mentioning neutering, I'm out of here," he says instead, settling into an armchair more comfortable than his bed.

"That is a specialty of Donna's, I believe," Harvey says, smiling around his beer as he drinks.

"Speaking from experience?" Mike chuckles. "I sort of suspected she might be keeping your balls in her desk somewhere."

"Kid, she'd need a lot more storage than that."

Donna curls her legs under her on the sofa, cups her hand to shield her mouth from Harvey's view, and mouths _lower right hand drawer_ to Mike.

Mike chokes on his beer and enjoys the resulting back and forth banter, watching Harvey and Donna's voices twist together like playful otters in the air between them.

They drink imported beer, eat Harvey's idea of "junk food" (which probably costs more than a four course meal at Mike's favorite restaurant – really, who puts white truffle oil on popcorn?), and enjoy the first inning without ever cracking open the files.

It quickly becomes apparent that Donna is an insane baseball fan. She hurls insults at the opposing team that would be considered colorful even to someone _without _synesthesia, whoops with joy when the Yankees score, and at one point is apparently prepared to hurl her beer at the obscenely large flat screen before Harvey skillfully slips it out of her upraised hand.

"This is why they won't let you back in Hurley's Sports Bar and you have to suffer my company to watch the game on a big screen TV" Harvey admonishes her wryly.

"No," Donna says, raising a stern finger in Harvey's direction, "They won't let me back in Hurley's because I broke that investment banker's wrist last fall."

Mike chokes on his beer a little (again – it seems to be a pattern). "What? Seriously?"

"He grabbed my tits," Donna shrugs. "I feel as though it was an appropriate response. You disagree?"

She has that slightly off-balanced, shark-like look of danger in her eyes.

"No, no!" Mike rushes to assure her. "If I had been there I'm sure I would have broken his wrist on your behalf, or relieved him of a finger or something as a reminder not to go where he's not invited."

"You think I need you to break wrists on my behalf, Junior?"

"No, I mean, clearly you're capable of breaking bones on your own, I just meant that I – uh-"

"Give the kid a break," Harvey scolds Donna, "You'll break his brain or something," (and that right there is just further evidence of the fact that Harvey very well_might_ need an airplane hanger to store his apparently massive balls, because who else but someone with epic _cajones_ would _scold_ Donna? The woman is _terrifying_).

"I knew you cared," Mike grins at Harvey, who rolls his eyes.

"Don't read too much into it, kid. I just find your freakish memory useful for impressing clients and amusing small minds at the firm's cocktail parties."

Mike continues to smile beguilingly at Harvey, unconvinced, even as his heart clenches a little at Harvey's choice of words.

_Freakish_.

"I do like the idea of removing that banker's fingers," Donna concedes, tapping her lip with one perfectly manicured finger. She appears to be considering the logistics of divesting a man of his digits in a bar. "Very Arabian. Has a certain barbaric flair to it."

Mike adds another mental tally mark to the _Reasons Not To Piss Off Donna_ column in his brain, then scoops up another handful of popcorn with white truffle oil and dead sea salt (it _is_ delicious).

Harvey calls him a cab close to midnight, long after the game has ended and Donna has annihilated them both in Wii bowling several times over. Mike stands awkwardly in the doorway as he leaves, slightly drunk and more relaxed than he's been in months. He feels like he's in high school, trying to decide rather of not to kiss his date. Except that's ridiculous, because this is Harvey (Harvey, who collects one night stands with beautiful women like they're baseball cards or stamps), and Donna is in the next room trying to find her shoes and her phone before she leaves.

"The Killerman briefs," Mike blurts suddenly. "We never – I didn't proof them."

Harvey looks at him with a strange blend of consternation and amusement (and maybe, just maybe, a little affection).

"It's fine, Mike," he says, passing Mike his messenger bag and ushering him out the door.

Mike is halfway home before he realizes that when Harvey said _it's fine_ what he meant was _that was never why I asked you over in the first place._

There is a warm blush of burgundy behind his eyes when he drifts off to sleep that night, despite the fact that Harvey is much too far away for his voice to be painting Mike's vision.

If Harvey's voice is warm and rich when he's pleased with Mike, it's cold and biting when he's let down. Mike hates the color of Harvey's voice when Harvey's displeased with him, frustrated, annoyed, or (worst of all) disappointed. It's like a violent, sickening splash of blood across his vision, and he swears he'd do just about anything to bring the hue back to its usual Merlot.

"You've got a weak stomach," Harvey tells him after the mock trial. "You're not cut out for this."

His words are a metallic red, edged with a sharp, steely thread of contempt that cuts Mike to his core.

Mike wants to tell Harvey the way his own voice had looked in the fake court room, dirty gray and vicious black, the sound circling Rachael like a predator. He wants to tell Harvey how Rachael's voice had slipped from the gentle lavender of her usual cadence to a deep, wounded magenta that trembled with hints of red, the way the words he threw at her tasted like blood and dirt and pain.

But the metal in Harvey's voice is a wall between them. Mike knows that anything he says will only break itself against the unyielding color of Harvey's disappointment, his useless words falling away like dead leaves in a wind.

He stays quiet, unwilling to see the disheartened, chastised shade of his own voice stretch into the emptiness between them.

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><p>TBC<p>

A/N 3: Any and all feedback or concrit will be loved, cherished, and cradled like a firstborn child. I'm quite nervous about this fic, because I'm not sure if my descriptions of Mike's sensory differences make sense or not, so if it seems unduly confusing or unclear please let me know so that I can try to fix it! :)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you all so much for the kind reviews - I don't have time to answer them all individually, but please know that I greatly appreciate them and the time you took to write them. I'm posting this fic on my LJ account as well (generally one chapter ahead) and I *DO* respond to all comments made to my journal, so if you want a specific response I would suggest commenting there ( phreakycat(dot)livejounral(dot)com ). This chapter is longer, and contains the H/C. Enjoy!

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><p>Despite the childhood pain of being different, despite the sometimes added complexity of having synesthesia, Mike has never seen it as a curse, a disorder, or something to fix or eliminate. He can't imagine being without it. It's another dimension of life, an extra sense that colors the world around him with a depth and a richness most people are blind to. He also knows he owes his incredible recall to the synesthesia – when he reads, the words come alive with color and texture that live in his memory with far more permanence than flat, black lines on a page ever could. The unique shades of individual voices paint pictures in his memory that don't fade. All of the science says that people with synesthesia are also much more likely to have near-photographic memory than the general population, and without his memory Mike would never have made it to Pearson Hardman (and therefore never would have made it to Harvey).<p>

So he's grateful.

There is, however, one aspect of his unique brain that he wishes (desperately) to eradicate. In addition to improved memory, people with synesthesia are also much more likely to suffer from epilepsy. And Mike, being the thorough individual that he is, can check off that box on his list of unique qualifiers as well.

He knows how much worse it could be – he rarely has seizures, maybe four or five times a year at most, and he is able to control his condition with a relatively low dose of medications. He knows the science, the stats – knows how many people are incapacitated by seizures and tremors and the dulling, dry-mouth, shakiness of high-dose meds.

Compared to life-threatening seizures and brain surgery, two pills a day and the inability to drive seem like nothing. Technically speaking, his epilepsy is so well controlled that he _could _get a license, but he cannot bring himself to risk what might happen if his meds failed him while he was behind the wheel.

He cannot risk taking from someone else what was taken from him.

He lets Harvey believe that he bikes because he's broke, or health conscious, or unwilling to deal with NYC traffic, because this, too, is something he never wants Harvey to know about.

Unfortunately for Mike, in this instance the choice is taken out of his hands.

It's been a long, tiring week. Harvey is snappy and watches him with a look that almost _dares _Mike to fuck up, just to give Harvey an excuse to tear him down. Mike feels no better, and is almost tempted to pick a fight just so they can both let off steam. There is still an uneasy tension between them, leftover from the mock trial fallout, and while they seem to be moving back into the familiar equilibrium of their strange partnership, there is still hurt and resentment on both sides.

It doesn't help that neither of them have had much sleep, and Mike's head has been pounding all afternoon. The colors of his peers' voices are too bright, like lasers shining in his eyes. Later on it'll be easy for him to look back at this as the warning sign it is, but in the moment all he knows is that he's tired and hungry and would rather be anywhere than here in Harvey's office, buried under a metaphorical mountain of paperwork for the Hillshire suit, Harvey's dissatisfaction like a physical presence in the room.

"Do you have the transcript for the board meeting on the 8th?" Harvey asks him, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. His voice flashes across Mike's vision like a strobe light of red and white, sending a spike of pain straight through his brain.

Mike presses the heel of his hand against his eye socket, grimacing and suddenly pissed off. He feels off-kilter, and his mouth tastes like pennies.

"Mike." Harvey says, red and bright and excruciating.

"Jesus, Harvey," Mike snaps, even as he recoils from the electric blue of his own words, "Why does your voice have to be so fucking _bright_? Will you just – can you please just _shut up_?"

Mike's brain feels too big for his skull, his lungs too big for his chest, like his muscles are tightening into vices.

"Excuse me?" Harvey's voice is low, confused, angry (_red, red, red_). "I cannot _possibly _have heard that right, because it sounded like you told me to shut up, Mike, and unless you want to find yourself out on your ass so fast you-"

"Harvey-" Mike interrupts, because he's looking down at his right hand and his fingers are tapping, tapping against the table in a staccato rhythm that is horrifyingly familiar. His vision is washing out in sickly lime green, the taste of pennies is rising in the back of his throat, and he knows what this means, knows what's coming...

"_Shit_, Harvey," he gasps, staggering to his feet. He's gotta get out of here, only there's no time, and he never told Harvey what to do, what this is. "Don't call 911, okay? I'll be fine. Just- just-"

"Mike," Harvey says, confusion and concern washing the anger from his face, "What are you talking about? Why would I call 911?"

"Five minutes," Mike says past his thick tongue, trying to make Harvey understand, trying to draw the line between _don't panic _and _panic_. "Less than five minutes, don't c-c-c-c-"

He feels his toes curl violently, the muscles in his legs going painfully taut, and then he's falling.

He hears Harvey shout "Jesus, Mike-" and the color of his voice explodes through Mike's vision, too much, too much, a blinding spectrum that bleeds into pure white.

And then there's no color at all.

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><p>Eighteen years ago, a pickup truck plowed into Gregory and Lisa Ross's sedan and crumpled it like it was made of tin.<p>

Gregory's head bounced off the door frame hard enough to fracture his skull, breaking his neck and killing him instantly.

Lisa lived for twenty minutes after the crash. She was awake for ten of those minutes. Then her lungs filled with blood and she died quietly, leaving her nine year old son, Michael, an orphan.

Mike remembers only pieces of that night. He remembers more than he wants to.

When he woke up four days later in the pediatric ward of the hospital, he could see sounds. His own voice rippled out before him in desperate, white-hot waves when he cried out for his mother. The nurses' tones were all pastel with sympathy and sadness when they talked to him. It felt like his senses were raw, overwrought, and Mike hated it.

But two weeks later (after they let him go home with Gran, after his parents had been put into boxes and buried), Mike sat in the closet in his new room, hugging his parent's answering machine to his skinny chest. Over and over, he pressed play and listened to his parents' voices, the cheesy recording, the mundane little messages they left for each other, the way his mom always said_ I love you boys, be good _when she called to say she was running late. He watched awestruck as their voices unfurled into the dark around him, full of color and so _alive_, and all he could feel was grateful for the chance to see it.

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><p>Mike wakes up gradually, like floating on the surface of long, gentle waves.<p>

Awareness builds, snatches of color and sound and sensation, then fades back into indistinct darkness. Each swell of consciousness brings him closer to the surface, and eventually he can understand the words behind the colors that are swirling inside his skull.

"Mike, wake up," the voice says.

It's red, smooth, familiar. Safe.

"Come on, Mike. Right the fuck now. Wake up, or I don't give a shit what you want, I'm calling 911."

Mike doesn't want 911. He can't remember why, but he knows he doesn't want it. He makes an annoyed little humming sound deep in his throat and musters the energy to crack open his eyes.

"Thank god," someone says. Their voice has an orangey tint of worry. Mike can tell, even though all the colors are muted and blurry. "Mike, can you hear me?"

God, he's tired. Why the fuck is he so _tired_?

"No, keep your eyes open. Stay awake for me."

Someone taps his cheek and he moans, trying to shift away, but that only awakens a thousand aching hurts in his body. His muscles burn and his head throbs in time to his heartbeat. There's something familiar about all of it, but he can't place it. He just wants to go back to sleep, but the voice is bouncing color off the back of his eyelids again.

"Open your eyes and talk to me, Mike. Come on."

Mike heaves a giant sigh of consternation and blinks blearily up at the face above him, trying to make the blurry pieces focus into something recognizable. Gradually a pair of worried brown eyes coalesce, as well as a purple silk tie and slicked back hair. He knows those eyes, that tie. That hair.

"Harvey?" he says, or tries to, at least. It comes out more like a mangled slur, a huffy _H _sound and a drawn out _veeeee_.

"Yeah, kid. It's me. You with me now?"

Mike's sleepy brain fumbles its way through the question, bewildered and unable to figure out why Harvey is waking him up in the middle of the night asking him stupid things.

"Why're you..." he mumbles, and loses his train of thought. "Harvey?"

Harvey sighs and drags a hand over his face.

"Mike," he says with an uncommon amount of patience, "Do you know what happened?"

"Y'woke me up," Mike says, and even he's unsure if it's an answer or a complaint.

"You had a seizure," Harvey says slowly, pointedly.

Oh. No wonder Harvey looks worried.

"You're damn right I'm worried," Harvey says, and Mike spends a befuddled few seconds terrified that Harvey has gained mind-reading abilities before he realizes he's spoken his thoughts aloud. "You told me not to call 911, but I need to know if you need an ambulance, Mike. Do I need to call for help?"

"No," Mike slurs, grabbing clumsily at Harvey's sleeve. He blinks heavily at Harvey, fighting against the sleepiness that blankets him. He misses Harvey's sleeve twice before Harvey clasps his wrist in his hand and anchors him.

"Do you have medication I need to get?" Harvey asks, and his voice is like crimson velvet, fluttering and swirling like a ribbon in wind. Mike follows the color as it fades, spirals deeper, going down, down, down into darkness like-

"Mike!"

Mike jerks back into awareness, Harvey's hand like a vice around his wrist.

"Stay awake, damn it. I swear, if you pass out again I'm calling an ambulance. Now, do you have any meds you need?"

"No," Mike sighs, watching the blue of the word float between them like a bubble. "Wanna sleep."

"_No _you're not going to stay awake, or _no _you don't have meds you need?"

"Meds."

"Okay," Harvey says, dragging his hand over his mouth again. He looks more flustered than Mike has ever seen him. "Okay. Let's sit you up. We're going to get you coherent again, and then you're going to tell me what the hell just happened."

Harvey slips an arm behind Mike's shoulders and heaves him upright, and all the colors around them bleed like bad dye. Mike feels the soft fabric of Harvey's office sofa against the back of his neck when Harvey leans him against it, Harvey's hands hard like stone where they grip his shoulders to steady him.

The world won't stop slipping and spinning, and Mike feels suddenly, overwhelmingly sick.

"Harvey," he manages to moan, swallowing convulsively around the sound, "M'gonna..."

A metal trash can is thrust into his hands, and Mike grips it desperately as he curls forward and gags. He vomits weakly, each heave sending spikes of pain through his eyes and brain. He wants it to stop, doesn't understand why this is happening, doesn't understand _what_is happening. His brain is slipping sluggishly from thought to thought, chaotic, fluttering around the edges of a dark, blank space where there is no color, no memory of what happened to make him hurt like this.

He moans, a string of bloody drool dangling from his lips. Harvey pulls a crisp white handkerchief from his breast pocket and folds it, carefully wiping the blood and puke and spit from Mike's mouth. Later, Mike will be humiliated by this, but right now he's confused and tired and achy and so, so grateful for the gentle way Harvey is touching him.

"I think you bit the inside of your cheek," Harvey tells him. "Your mouth is bleeding a little. Does it hurt?"

Mike doesn't understand why Harvey thinks he would do something like that. Why would he bite himself? None of this makes sense.

Frustrated tears well up in his eyes but don't fall. His mouth tastes awful, like blood and puke and metal, and he tries to remember what he said that invoked such a terrible flavor so he can remember to never, ever say that word again.

"Harvey," he says instead, because Harvey's name tastes clean and chocolately and full of spice that covers the awfulness. "Harvey, Harvey."

Harvey turns to sit next to Mike, snaking an arm around Mike's shoulders and pulling him against his warm, solid side. Mike's head flops to rest on Harvey's shoulder, his breath puffing out erratically against the smooth merino of the older man's suit.

"We're at the office," Harvey says slowly, voice a soothing cinnamon red from just above Mike's scalp. "It's Friday, about eleven o'clock. You had a seizure about fifteen minutes ago, and that's why you feel confused. But you're okay, kid, I've got you. You're going to be okay."

Mike's brain follows the words sluggishly, struggling to put meaning to them. Singular words drift into his awareness – _office, seizure, okay_– and he starts to get a picture of what happened.

Oh, shit – he had a seizure in the office. And did he tell Harvey to shut up? Shit. _Shit_.

"Sorry," he mumbles against Harvey's wide lapel, "Harvey, I'm sorry."

_I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I'm sorry I puked in your trash can, I'm sorry I let you down. Again_.

Harvey cups a warm hand around the back of Mike's head, thumb brushing over the top of Mike's ear.

"Don't be," he says gently. "Just – I need to know what happened, alright? You scared the shit out of me, rookie, and you know me well enough by now to know how much I dislike being caught off guard. I'm assuming this has happened before. I need you to be honest with me - are you an epileptic, Mike?"

"Synesthete," Mike tells him. He feels the confused way Harvey twists to look at him, probably trying to decide if Mike is speaking gibberish or not. To be honest, Mike didn't mean to say that in the first place. But he's always thought of the seizures as simply a part of his synethesisa, and his brain is always scattered and awkwardly lacking in filters after a seizure. He nods shakily against Harvey's shoulder in lieu of trying to clarify, feeling the hand on his head brush over his hair as he moves under it. He shivers, and Harvey presses him almost imperceptibly closer.

"Okay," Harvey sighs. "What do you need? How can I help?"

There are so many layers of answers that Mike wants to give him, so many things he wants desperately to ask for, but he bites down on them and struggles to sit up.

"I gotta – I just need to sleep for a while, I'll be okay," he assures Harvey, head nodding on his neck as he struggles to keep his eyes open. "Can I – can I have a ride home, maybe?"

"You're not going home," Harvey tells him sternly, disentangling himself from Mike and standing. He hooks his hands under Mike's arms and pulls him up onto the couch, where Mike wobbles and blinks stupidly at him.

"No, Harvey, I don't need a hospital," he insists, yawning and rubbing at his eyes clumsily, "Please? I hate the hospital."

"I'm not going to take you to the hospital unless you have another seizure," Harvey explains, moving away to gather up his briefcase. "But I'm not leaving you alone tonight, not while you're so out of it."

"Huh?"

"I'm taking you to my place, genius."

"Oh," Mike says, trying to wrap his head around the idea of Harvey taking him home with him. It makes his head hurt and his chest tighten and his belly pool with warm fondness and something else he can't think about right now. "I am a genius, technically speaking," he tells Harvey, just to try to regain some normalcy in the situation.

"Of course you are," Harvey says wryly, looping his free arm around Mike's waist and easing him to a standing position. "You're a special, special snowflake. Now, do you think you can walk?"

Mike feels his forehead crease with mild offense. "Of course I can walk," he mutters. "I'm not fucking helpless. And I'm not a fucking snowflake, either."

And here is the post-seizure crankiness, right on schedule. Seizures make his moods swing wildly between confused neediness, weary depression, and a touchy sort of irritation that tends to lash out at whoever is helping him.

Harvey is quirking an eyebrow at him.

"I'm sorry," Mike says again. "I get moody after these things. So I'm sorry if I'm being bitchy. But you really should try not to be a condescending prick right now, too. That would be helpful."

Yup, still firmly in the "PMS" phase of his post-seizure brain chemistry rollercoaster ride.

"Well," Harvey says with a surprising amount of amusement in his tone (cherry red), "I suppose I'll just have to work on that, won't I? You just focus on staying on your feet and calling me out on any further incidents of prick-like behavior, and I'll make sure we get home in one piece, alright?"

"Yeah," Mike sighs, "Okay."

It's a slow, laborious process to get from Harvey's office to the street. Mike's legs feel heavy and exhausted, as though he's been running all day. His back aches, his head throbs, and he can't decide if he wants to cry, scream, pass out, or ask Harvey for a hug. Possibly all of the above, in that order.

By the time they manage to hail a cab and Harvey has maneuvered Mike into its back seat, Mike is nodding off again, moving restlessly on the seat even as his eyelids dip shut. He feels anxious, unsettled. Confused.

When Harvey slides in next to him on a wake of Clive Christian scented air, Mike can't help but curl his body toward the reassuring warmth and mars-red rumble of Harvey's voice. His fingers come to rest on the vinyl of the seat just beside Harvey's sleeve, curling against the bare edge of the hem. His brief swell of irritation is receding, leaving an exhausted sense of hopelessness in its stead. This is the part of his seizures he likes least (less than the embarrassment, less than the danger) – the weighted-soul sensation of despair that seeps into his core. It elicits memories of long, confusing nights after past seizures, full of regrets and an overwhelming awareness of his myriad failures as a person, a son, a grandson, and a friend.

God, he hates this. He hates the confusion and the helplessness and the fact that Harvey, of all people, is witnessing him in this state of disarray and pitiable weakness.

He turns his face into the seatback, eyes clenched shut as Harvey relays his address to the cabbie.

"Hey, Mike?" Harvey says a moment later, "Are you alright?"

The worry in his voice makes Mike's heart constrict in ways far too complex to analyze in his current state. He is horrified to feel hot, fat tears leak from the corners of his eyes. Biting back a breathy sob, he nods and tries to cover his face with a trembling hand. Even his fingernails hurt.

"Alright," Harvey says softly. Gentle fingers wrap around Mike's wrist and pull his hand away. "Come on, kid – you're alright."

There is a muted rustling from beside him, then Harvey is draping his obscenely expensive suit jacket over Mike's shoulders. Mike feels his fingers trace over the lapels, tugging the jacket more snugly around Mike's frame. It's still warm with Harvey's body heat - the mingled scent of expensive cologne and Harvey's clean, natural smell wash over his senses and warm him almost as much as the jacket itself.

Mike sighs deeply, wraps his fingers in Harvey's shirt, and let his head drop against Harvey's bicep.

He's asleep within moments.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: **THIS PART IS CHOCK FULL O' PORN, PEOPLE.** If graphic super-happy fun time boy-on-boy sexin' is not your cuppa tea, TURN BACK NOW. Seriously, a large portion of this chapter is pure porny goodness (hopefully), and while I did my best to keep it generally tasteful it IS graphic descriptions of gay sex - so use your judgement, because I won't be responsible for anyone claiming emotional trauma because they didn't heed the warning and skipped gleefully off into BUTSECKS LAND only to realize they're horribly offended by two ridiculously good looking men making the beast with two backs. And if that IS your cuppa tea, well... Enjoy!

* * *

><p>When Mike wakes up, early morning sun is just starting to filter through the tall glass windows of Harvey's condo. He's lying on Harvey's couch, cozily ensconced in a goose-down comforter and a pile of pillows that even Cleopatra would probably find excessive. He stretches carefully, wincing as his abused muscles protest the movement. The ache awakens his memory of the night before – the seizure, Harvey, the hazy trip back to Harvey's condo.<p>

"How are you feeling?"

Mike twists his head to peer across the room, where Harvey is sipping a cup of coffee in one of his living room chairs. He's wearing navy blue sleep pants and a white tee, hair softer and wavier than Mike is used to seeing it.

"Uh, sore? A little confused?" Mike says, struggling upright so that he's sitting with his bare feet against the cool hardwood. "Mostly embarrassed beyond comprehension."

Harvey smiles indulgently at him, standing and retrieving a second mug from the kitchen. He presses the warm ceramic into Mike's hands then drapes himself on the other end of the couch. Even in sleep clothes Harvey manages to look like he's ready for a GQ cover shoot. Mike runs his hand self-consciously through his sleep-mussed hair, knowing it looks like squirrels have been nesting in it (and possibly mating enthusiastically, depending on how restless his sleep was).

The coffee is exquisitely rich and strong when he sips it. Knowing Harvey, it was probably grown on a sacred mountainside in Colombia, watered only with dew drops from the rain forest, and hand-picked by a harem of virgins riding unicorns or something. Seriously, the man has ridiculously extravagant tastes.

"Here," Harvey says, tossing him a small orange bottle. Mike catches it awkwardly in one hand, turning it to look at the label. It's his Depakote, the bottle he carries in his messenger bag. "Take your morning dose."

Mike rolls his eyes but dutifully downs one purple, vanilla-scented tablet with a swallow of coffee.

"You skipped a dose yesterday, didn't you?" Harvey asks him, and he's got that look he gets when he's questioning a difficult witness.

"What? I, uh…" Mike stops, thinks, tries to remember. The days have been sort of bleeding together lately. Now that Harvey mentions it, though, he's pretty sure he forgot yesterday's AM dose. He was behind on reviewing the Gunderson bylaws, and then Louis had buried him in financial records that needed reviewing. "Shit. Wait – how did you know that?"

"You take two a day, according to the bottle, and it was filled on the 8th. There should be 44 pills left, but there are 45. So either you skipped a dose yesterday, or some other time within the last month. Either way, it can't happen again, Mike."

Mike stares down at the bottle in his hand, musing over the fact that Harvey has apparently gone into his bag, retrieved his pills, read the prescription, and meticulously counted out his pills. He thinks maybe he should feel some sense of affrontment or violation over the fact that his boss has been rifling through his stuff, delving into his medical history, and – he glances down at himself – yes, undressing him down to his undershirt and boxers at some point last night. Had it been anyone else, Mike knows he would feel as though they had overstepped important boundaries.

But with Harvey, there are no boundaries. Harvey goes where he wants, takes what he wants, and somehow manages to do it in a way that makes everyone _else _feel like he's doing them a favor. Mike is certainly no exception to that rule. If anything, he finds himself _wanting _Harvey to knock over all the walls he's carefully constructed to keep others out. It's both exhilarating and terrifying, knowing that his whole life is at Harvey's feet. Because there may be parts of himself he hasn't outright offered to Harvey yet, but if Harvey ever asks, ever moves to cross those lines, Mike knows he'll give him whatever he wants without hesitation. Harvey may not realize it, but he can waltz right into any corner of Mike's life whenever he wants, without any chance of resistance.

"I'm sorry," Mike says, stuffing down that train of thought. "Sometimes I just get so focused that I forget. Between the Gunderson bylaws and those financial records for Louis, it just slipped my mind. It's usually not a big deal – this doesn't usually happen if I only miss one dose."

Harvey gets a mildly pained, slightly constipated look on his face. Mike squints at him, trying to decipher the expression.

"I've been pushing you too hard," Harvey says, fingers clenching around his mug. His voice is dusky with self-recrimination.

Ah. So _this _is what guilt looks like on Harvey Spector.

It doesn't suit him.

"Mike, I owe you an apology. I've been overworking you these last few weeks. You're over tired, and lack of sleep and stress can trigger seizures. Then you missed a dose…"

Mike can't help the fond smile that wants to quirk his lips (always a details man, Harvey has clearly done some research on epilepsy, plus, you know, _he cares_).

"No one held a gun to my head," Mike says. "It happens sometimes, Harvey. Usually a few times a year, even if I take my meds and get plenty of sleep. It sucks and it's inconvenient, but I'm pretty used to it by now."

Harvey looks unconvinced, the awkward, pinched expression of guilt still firmly in place.

"I was unfair to you after the mock trial," he says abruptly, and Mike is _totally _not prepared for this sudden shift in subject. Of all the things he thought Harvey might say, _this_was not on the list.

Harvey's eyes are dark, uncharacteristically expressive. He looks at Mike and Mike sees a whole spectrum of regret, worry, and a complicated depth of things he still doesn't know how to decode.

"I- I shouldn't have said what I said, either," Mike says, looking away. "I didn't mean it. I just – I was angry at myself for letting you down. Again."

"You didn't let me down, I let _you _down," Harvey says, voice still heavy with remorse. Mike's chest tightens with shaky hope. "I should have coached you more, helped you prepare. I knew all the other partners were coaching their associates, but I assumed you didn't need my help. I forget sometimes that a genius IQ and highly accurate memory don't necessarily mean that you know how to apply them in a given situation. I know it's a rather backhanded way of showing it, but the only reason I was so uninvolved is that I know how capable you are. I intended my actions, or lack thereof, to show you that I trusted your ability to handle it on your own, but I can see in retrospect that it must have looked like a lack of interest or support."

Mike's laughs bitterly "Yeah, well, I guess now we both know how completely _incapable _I am, don't we?"

Harvey looks at him with an expression that is just shy of pained. Mike thinks fleetingly that this conversation has to be resolved quickly, before Harvey's face sticks like that.

"Alright – listen close," Harvey says, leaning forward, "because this is probably the only time you'll hear these particular words come out of my mouth in this order:_ I was wrong_. You _did _handle it, as best you could under those circumstances. You weighed the pros and cons and decided that hurting a friend and damaging an important working relationship wasn't worth a fake victory. That took strength and integrity, and I should have recognized it sooner. I just… I know what you're capable of, Mike. And every time I see you sabotage your own success it makes me want to shake you until you see reason. Even when your motives are noble. You've got to start putting yourself first sometimes, kid, or you're never going to get ahead. If you don't look out for your own interests, _no one_will."

"_You _will," Mike blurts, then flushes. Apparently his brain-to-mouth filter is still recovering from last night. It's true, though – Harvey's got his back, no matter how cold he tries to pretend he is. Mike knows this more completely than he knows anything he's ever read in a book.

"Yeah," Harvey says, a fond, slow smile stealing over his lips, "I suppose I will. But only because-"

"-I'm a reflection of you, _blah blah blah_, reputation to maintain, etcetera etcetera. I get it." Mike says, waving a hand dismissively at Harvey.

"I was going to say," Harvey says deliberately, shooting Mike his _don't interrupt, were you raised in a barn?_ expression, "is _only because I sort of like having you around_."

"Oh," Mike says, chastened. "Thanks? And, you know, thanks for taking care of me last night. I know that wasn't fun."

"You did call me a condescending prick and puke in my hand-hammered copper trash can."

"Uh… sorry about that. I can be sort of an asshole for a while after a seizure. My brain chemistry is all over the place, and it can make me pretty bitchy." Mike chuckles. "Once, when I was twelve, I had a seizure in class at school. After, I told my social studies teacher that her breath smelled like cabbage and a learning-disabled chimpanzee could do her job more effectively than she did. I mean, it was true, but still pretty harsh. So you got off lightly."

Harvey laughs, a quick burst of raspberry like a bubble popping. "I can only imagine you at twelve. You must have been a _terror _to teach." Harvey pauses, expression shifting back into consideration. "Twelve, huh? You were having seizures that young?"

"Yeah, I was diagnosed at nine."

"What happened?" There isn't any uncertainty in Harvey's voice, no doubt that there is more to Mike's story than a random misfiring of brain chemistry. As always, Harvey sees everything Mike tries to hide.

His heart sinks a little and he looks down and away, the familiar tug of grief and resignation pulling at him. It's too late to hold anything back, now. Harvey's already seen him at his worst, seizing on a floor and helpless and pathetic in the aftermath. He might as well know the whole truth of the matter.

"When my parents died, I was in the car with them," he begins. Harvey shifts beside him, but Mike doesn't look up, unwilling to risk seeing pity or discomfort. "I don't remember much, because my head hit the window, hard. My parents… they, uh, never made it out of the car. It took EMS more than an hour to cut me out, and all the while I was bleeding into my brain. It was a slow bleed, but I was young and the intracranial pressure to my temporal lobe did some damage. When I woke up in the hospital, days later, I was… different."

"The synesthesia," Harvey says. Mike's head jerks up in surprise. "You said _synesthete _last night when I asked if you were epileptic. You may be the Boy Wonder when it comes to research, but I do have my skills with Google as well."

Harvey's face is open, relaxed, considering. Mike searches it for traces of the expected unease or pity but finds nothing. Something unclenches in his chest, a tightness he wasn't aware was there until it was gone. He heaves a relieved sigh, sagging into the couch cushions.

"Did you think I would see you differently?" Harvey asks. He sounds almost… _offended_.

"Yes? No?" Mike shrugs. "I don't know. People generally don't understand it, and it's sort of a strange conversation to have with someone. _Hi, I'm Mike. I like reading, stuffed crust pizza, and long walks on the beach. And oh, yeah, I see sounds and taste words. How 'bout them Yankees, huh?"_

"The first time I met you, you were fleeing the police with a briefcase full of drugs. We've been lying to everyone at the firm for months about your qualifications. I risk my career and our clients' cases daily by keeping you around. And you _really _thought having quirky senses or epilepsy would catastrophically alter the bounds of our relationship?"

Mike can feel himself flushing. "It sounds pretty stupid when you put it like that."

"That's because it is stupid. You should have told me, Mike. Especially about the epilepsy. If you had, then I wouldn't have been left completely unprepared to deal with the situation. I would have much preferred to learn about it _any _other way other than you going into convulsions on my carpet."

"I'm sorry," Mike says with sincerity. And he is. Now that Harvey knows, it seems ridiculous that he never told him. "I just – It's not exactly something you open with, but then the longer you go without saying something the weirder it gets to bring it up, you know? There's just never a good time or a good way to tell someone, especially when it stems from a traumatic childhood event. People get weird about it, and I liked being Mike Ross the kick-ass associate instead of Mike Ross the brain freak, you know?"

"Are you kidding? You've always been Mike Ross the brain freak. That's why I hired you, idiot. I don't want normal, I don't want ordinary."

"I didn't want you to see me like this," Mike says, picking absently at the comforter.

"Stop," Harvey says, pulling Mike's fingers away from the fabric, "That's Siberian goose down." His fingers linger for a moment, ghosting over Mike's hand when he pulls away. "You didn't want me to see you like what?"

"Damaged. Helpless. Useless."

"You're not damaged," Harvey says with certainty. "There are things in life that change us, Mike – some of them are painful, some of them are hard to deal with. But changed doesn't mean broken, it just means different. We learn to deal with it and we adapt. And you're certainly not helpless. Needing some help once in a while doesn't make you any less competent the rest of the time. Do you really think I would hire an associate that was useless or helpless? _Please_. Give me more credit than that."

Mike chuckles, smoothing out the comforter repentantly. "I'm reminded again why you're the best closer in the city."

"As if you could ever forget," Harvey smirks. He pauses, gives Mike a thoughtful look. "So, right now, while we're talking, you can actually _see_my voice?"

"Yeah. I'm mostly a color-sound synesthete, so I get visual representations of sound in the form of color."

"What does it look like?"

"It's… sort of like watching sound waves on an oscilloscope. It fluctuates with tone and volume. Your voice is usually red, mostly vermilion. It gets brighter when it's louder, lighter when the tone is higher, darker for deeper sounds. Sometimes I can tell your mood by the color of your voice, even when you're doing a good job of hiding it otherwise. "

Harvey looks intrigued. "That sounds… pretty incredible, actually."

"Yeah, you know it really is. The seizures suck, obviously, but I would never want to get rid of the synesthesia."

"The potential uses in the courtroom are astounding. If you can really see tension in people's voices, just think of how useful that would be in cross-examinations or jury selection."

Harvey has the sort of eager, satisfied look he gets on his face when he finds just the right piece of evidence to crush an opponent. It makes something warm unfurl in Mike's belly to be the cause of that look.

"It's honestly a big part of my memory, too," he admits. "I've got some grapheme-color synesthesia, too – not much, but when I read, the letters and numbers are slightly colored. It makes them easier to remember."

"Kid, you just get more and more surprising," Harvey says fondly. "And before, did you say you can actually taste words?"

"Some of them. The ones that invoke strong emotion or have personal associations."

"In what sense?"

"You know, words with strong emotional meaning, words I associate with specific events, the names of places I have a strong connection to, foods I like… people I love."

"Give me an example."

Harvey is looking at him with strange intensity, and Mike feels a bit like a bug under a magnifying glass, in danger of combusting. He has a new, sudden sympathy for the witnesses that Harvey cross-examines.

"Uh, well… When I say _Grammy _I taste sugar cookies and lilac. When I say _coffee _I can actually taste coffee." The flavors wash over his tongue as he speaks and he smiles.

"So what does _my _name taste like?" Harvey asks easily, confidently, without any doubt that his name constitutes strong emotion and personal association for Mike.

Mike feels the tips of his ears turn pink. Harvey is treading perilously close to uncharted emotional territory, and Mike honestly can't tell if he's unknowingly skirting the subject of Mike's infatuation with him or if he's purposefully zeroing in on it.

"Who says your name tastes like anything at all?" he says weakly. His voice looks thin, faded, and he knows it won't fool Harvey for a second. He's not even sure why he's trying to divert the question - if Harvey's asking, it's pretty much a given that Mike will answer.

"Are you saying it _doesn't _taste like anything?" The edges of Harvey's mouth curl up smugly. His eyes flick to Mike's mouth and back. Blatant. Expectant. Hungry.

Mike's heart rate skyrockets.

"No, it does, it's just sort of… complex." he breathes, unable to look away from Harvey's face. "There are a lot of layers to it. It's hard to describe."

_Like you._

Harvey makes a thoughtful sound and leans in toward Mike, his hand on the back of the couch, brushing mike's shoulder. Mike can feel the heat like a fever, even through the fabric of his tee shirt. There is a tension in the air between them, something that is both frighteningly new and unbearably familiar.

"That sounds… interesting," Harvey says. He's holding Mike's gaze with intent, his eyes (always so perceptive, so sharp) look shadowed and his pupils are dilating. Mike swallows heavily, feeling his breath go shallow with anticipation and nerves and _want_.

"Uh, yeah. It is." His voice cracks a little. "It's… completely unique."

"Say it," Harvey says, thumb brushing over the neckline of Mike's tee.

"What?"

"Say my name, Mike. Tell me how it tastes."

"Harvey," Mike breathes, unsure if he's protesting, complying, or begging.

Harvey's hand moves to cup the nape of Mike's neck, short nails brushing through his hair.

"What do you taste?" Harvey says. His voice is husky, curious.

"It's like red wine," Mike breathes, eyes drifting shut. A shiver works its way down his spine as Harvey's thumb brushes the soft skin behind his ear. "And, uh, dark chocolate. The expensive kind. Cinnamon."

Harvey makes a pleased, low sound and Mike opens his eyes, breath going still at the look on Harvey's face. He can't believe that this is happening, that this is real. They're slipping so far outside the realm of their established roles that Mike feels nearly paralyzed by the unfamiliarity of it. But _god_, he wants this. He wants this to be real.

"Sounds delicious," Harvey says. There is a hue to his voice that Mike's never seen before – like the hot glow of coals in a fire. "So what you're saying is that I taste good, is that right, Mike?"

Mike's fairly certain that his heart is going to stop any moment now – no one can be this turned on and this terrified and this hopeful all at once without some sort of catastrophic physical repercussion. "Y-yeah," he hears himself say. His voice is indigo. "Yeah. Better than anyone else."

"Well, that's not surprising." Harvey's hand slips from the back of Mike's neck to rest between his shoulder blades, palm splayed, just enough pressure to make Mike want to lean forward. The easy, humored arrogance of Harvey's words gives Mike a bare moment of comforting familiarity, then - "It hardly seems fair, though" Harvey continues, "That you know how I taste, and I haven't yet had the pleasure of tasting you."

Mike makes a choked, embarrassingly girly sound, firmly back outside the realm of the familiar. He knows he looks like a deer in headlights, but his normally astute brain is utterly failing him in this moment and he has _no idea_ how to respond (somehow, screaming _yes, yes, please, god, put your mouth on me_ seems too desperate, even if he _could _find the air to form the words).

Harvey smirks knowingly at him, apparently un-phased (the bastard). "I'm going to kiss you now, Mike," he says gently, carefully, like he's talking someone down from a ledge (and maybe he is - fuck, Mike feels like he could just step off the edge of this moment and fall and fall and fall…).

"Okay," Mike says, "Okay, yeah-"

Harvey leans in and presses their lips together, cutting off Mike's rambling, breathy words. There is espresso and cream on his breath as he exhales against Mike's mouth. His lips are soft, but with a firm power behind them that is so strong, so _Harvey_, it makes Mike's heart stutter. He shudders and sucks in a desperate breath, body going limp as Harvey's tongue sweeps over his mouth. Harvey's teeth scrape over the slick, wet skin on the inside of Mike's lower lip. Mike's making frantic, humiliating sounds, hands clutching at Harvey's shoulders, mouth parting under the inexorable, unstoppable force of Harvey's kiss.

He can't believe this is happening, can't believe that the thing he's wanted for _months _is finally his. It's like Harvey is filling all the aching, lonely places in his soul with heat and promise, and he's terrified that this is all some seizure-induced fever dream that will vanish if he opens his eyes.

But Harvey's hands against his skin are firm, warm, undeniably real and demanding. They yank Mike's shirt over his head, deftly untangling him from the sleeves, smooth palms like bursts of light against Mike's bare skin. Harvey slips an arm around the small of Mike's back, his fingers fitted perfectly to the grooves of Mike's ribs. He gets a knee under himself and pushes their bodies back towards the pillows. Mike lets himself be angled back, Harvey's arm under him in support even as it bends his torso in an arch that presses their chests together. Harvey's mouth is (unsurprisingly) as gifted in kissing as it is in a courtroom, moving smoothly and wetly, nipping at Mike's lower lip, pressing soft, teasing kisses to the corners of his mouth. Mike's mouth floods with the familiar, rich taste that is Harvey, but with the added high notes of the very real, physical taste of the man himself.

Mike can taste Harvey, smell him, feel his heart thundering, see the hot red of his short breaths in a corona that surrounds them. It's all Harvey, everywhere, _everything_. It's fucking amazing, better than anything else he's experienced, and he's suddenly terrified that this is simply a tease of something that can never really be his.

"Harvey," he manages to gasp, twisting his head to the side, throat tightening dangerously, "Are you- are you sure? I mean, you really want this? You're not just-" He can't finish that sentence, can't give voice to the undeniable fear that this is a pity fuck, a power play, or some sort of infinitely cruel joke. Because if this isn't as real for Harvey as it is for Mike, it just might fucking kill him.

Harvey stills and pulls away just enough to look Mike in the face. They've never been so physically close before, and the intensity of his gaze with so little air between them is _almost _too much to look at.

"Do I look like a man who doesn't know what he wants, Mike?" Harvey asks. The words are Harvey's familiar, arrogant tone, but his expression, his eyes – they're uncommonly open, quietly reassuring. Gentle, even. Harvey is letting down his guard, letting Mike see the truth of his intentions written on his face as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud. Relief and lust and joy make Mike's limbs tremble and he takes three deep, steadying breaths.

Holy shit, Harvey wants him. Harvey _wants _him.

The man in question is radiating heat, the clean smell of him overwhelming and god, _so good_. Mike can feel Harvey's pulse under his hands as he grips the fabric of Harvey's shirt in shaky fingers, arching helplessly into the space between their bodies. He is achingly, immediately hard. The bare inches between them feel like miles of excruciating space that he's desperate to cross.

Harvey fits one thigh smoothly between Mike's legs, pressing them together from hip to collarbone in a slow, agonizing advancement of contact. The fabric of his sleep pants is soft, warm, and sends electric signals through Mike's skin where it brushes against his bare inner thighs. Mike bites his lip and bows his back, pressing their bellies together hard. The firm planes of Harvey's abs move steadily against his own as both of them breathe, and molten arousal pools in Mike's lower belly where their muscles flex together.

Harvey takes Mike's earlobe in his teeth, dragging over the sensitive skin, and Mike's back arches again with pleasure.

"Ah, Harvey, _god_…" he gasps, taste and color and sensation flooding his senses. It's almost too much, almost more than he can process – sensory overload. But he wants more, _wants it all_, wants every inch of skin and touch that Harvey is willing to give him.

Then Harvey rolls his hips down, and Mike almost comes right there as he feels Harvey's heavy cock pressed base to tip against his own. Harvey is as hard as he is, and it sends a jolt of something fond and relieved and grateful through his core to know that he's doing that to Harvey. His hands slip from Harvey's shoulders to his hips, gripping them with desperation as he rocks up into that delicious point of contact. His legs tremble and his breath shudders out of him as he begs "_Please_, Harvey."

"Eager puppy, aren't we?" Harvey smirks against his neck, licking a stripe along Mike's carotid. Mike whimpers, scrabbling at the waistband of Harvey's pants. There is far too much clothing between them, and Mike needs Harvey's bare skin like he needs air or food or water. Getting Harvey naked feels like a matter of survival.

He manages to get the pants halfway down Harvey's ass (firm and wonderful under his hands) before Harvey pulls up and away, one hand dragging over Mike's scalp and down the nape of his neck. Like he's petting him. _Puppy_.

"Turn over," Harvey says huskily. His face is raw with lust, and Mike feels awed and exposed under the intensity of his desire. He doesn't want to look away, but Harvey's gaze is expectant and sure and impossible to deny. He twists awkwardly onto his belly, sore body protesting the movement. Harvey must pick something up in the way he moves, because his hands press firmly into the aching muscles between Mike's shoulder blades, thumbs sliding along the ridge of Mike's spine. He smoothes out the clenched muscles from shoulders to lumbar, then drags the tips of his fingers down the dip of Mike's lower back to the waist of his boxers.

Mike swears he can feel the echo of that touch in his skin like color or heat, like glow-in-the-dark hand prints on his flesh, and he wonders if it's possible for overwhelming desire to spontaneously produce a new type of synesthesia. If there is anyone in the world who might be capable of altering brain function purely through touch, it would be Harvey Spector.

Harvey traces the edges of Mike's boxers teasingly, the barest touch skirting the boundary of skin and fabric. Mike wraps an arm around a pillow and presses his face into the cloth, his whole body shaking with want and nervous anticipation.

"God," Harvey breathes, "You look-"

Mike's never heard him sound so unguarded.

Harvey's nails scrape almost imperceptibly over Mike's skin as he curls his fingers over the waist of the boxers, sliding them down Mike's legs with slow, careful propose. The couch dips as Harvey sits up to tug them free. Mike turns his head on the pillow to watch Harvey strip off his own shirt and shove his pants down his hips. His body is flushed, firm, fucking _perfect_. Mike's breath catches as he sees Harvey's dick, hard and dusky where it angles against his stomach.

Harvey reaches for something in the side table drawer, then lowers his body over Mike's back. The hot tip of his dick brushes over the back of Mike's thigh, leaving a slick trail of pre-come in its wake. Mike moans and pushes his hips into the couch, desperate for friction.

Harvey touches his lips to the base of Mike's skull, grazing Mike's ribs with the fingers of one hand.

"You okay?" he asks softly, and Mike can hear the soft snick of a lid being opened, the subtle sounds of Harvey doing something wet with his hands. The concerned, coquelicot shade of his voice makes Mike's heart swell with affection.

"Yeah, god, _yeah_, Harvey, I'm good, so good… Don't you dare fucking stop."

Harvey chuckles, a throaty, deep sound that makes Mike squirm. "If you insist."

Mike's body jerks in surprise as Harvey presses a slick, warm finger against his ass, kissing a hot trail down his shoulders. He chokes on a wanton sound as the digit sinks slowly into his body, twisting and brushing over sensitive tissues with the sort of easy confidence that Mike's come to expect from Harvey, always. He's watched Harvey's hands for months, carefully observing the sure, precise way they move, unable to help wondering what such hands could do with someone else's flesh under them. But this is… so much more than he'd imagined, so much more than he ever hoped he'd be allowed to have.

Harvey works him open with deft, gentle movements, long moments of pleasure and teasing pressure, then slides another finger in alongside the first. Mike presses his ass back against Harvey's hand, then yelps as Harvey crooks his fingers and angles them against his prostate.

"Now, Harvey, _please_, ah, ah," he begs, twisting his arm back to clutch at Harvey's thigh. His voice is electric blue with tension and want. Harvey's name and his own incoherent pleading make a cocktail of spice and sweetness on his tongue.

Harvey laughs breathily, and maybe Mike should be embarrassed by his shameless want, or annoyed by Harvey's smugness, but right now he doesn't care about _anything_other than Harvey fucking him and fucking him _now_.

Luckily for Mike, Harvey is a man that always finishes what he starts.

And christ, the feeling when he finally sinks into Mike is... overwhelming. Harvey's _big _(of course he is), and it feels like he's pressing the air out of Mike's lungs, like there isn't room inside Mike for anything but Harvey's voice and Harvey's touch and Harvey's cock. The slow, stretching burn as Mike's body opens under Harvey sends hot waves of pleasure up his spine. His toes curl. He clutches at the pillow and gasps desperate little sounds into it, breathing through the adjustment as Harvey bottoms out against the sweat-slicked curve of his ass.

Harvey is breathing heavily above him, hands gripping Mike's hips with bruising intensity.

"God, fuck," Harvey says, "_Mike_."

The sound of his own name on Harvey's voice, painted in lustful crimson in the air around them, makes Mike gasp and cant his hips to press Harvey deeper. It's so different in Harvey's mouth than it is in his own - no hint of failure or regret, just the promise of something too vast for words.

Harvey's pelvic bones make twin points of pressure against his ass and when Harvey rocks out and pumps forward again, Mike swears he can feel every millimeter of motion, every point of contact.

Harvey fucks him with short, teasing jerks at first. Mike writhes under him, nails digging into Harvey's thigh as he works for more friction.

"Harvey, you god damned tease, come _on_," he growls, snaking his free hand under himself to grab at his dick. "Fuck me like you mean it, damn it."

"I think you're forgetting your place, rookie," Harvey says, and god, how does he manage to sound haughty and cool even when he's _fucking someone_? Mike whimpers in protest when Harvey pulls his hand away from his dick, but further protest dies on his lips when Harvey hooks an arm around Mike's hips and pulls him onto his knees. Moving with Harvey's dick buried in him takes his breath away, every shift of their bodies magnified by a factor of ten. The changed angle presses against new, exquisite places inside him. He breathes out on a long moan, clenching down around the thick stretch of Harvey's dick. The sound Harvey makes in reaction is garnet red.

Then Harvey is moving again, and Mike can only stretch an arm out to brace himself on the armrest of the couch as Harvey finally, finally fucks him in earnest. Harvey pulls back so that just the tip of his cock remains in Mike's body, then rocksforward again until their thighs press together. Again, again, and then he alters the angle of his movements almost imperceptibly, just enough to hit Mike's prostate with each thrust.

Mike shouts breathily, eyes rolling helplessly in his skull. All he can do is brace himself and rock to meet Harvey's hips, white-hot pleasure racing up and down his limbs like electricity. Jumbled words and sounds spill from his lips in little firework pops of color, _please _and _god_ and _Harvey_. His senses feel exponential as his orgasm builds, heat pooling in his belly, a wave that builds and builds and teeters on the cusp of breaking for long, agonizing moments.

"Harvey," he gasps, fingers digging into the fabric of the couch, "Fuck, _fuck_!"

His mouth is awash with the taste of sugar and cayenne and Harvey, Harvey, _Harvey_.

Harvey reaches around their bodies and grips Mike's cock, hand slick with lube. He tugs at it once, twice, three times, then slides his thumb over the head, hard.

Mike comes so hard his vision whites out, like every color in the spectrum exploding into pure light. His body clenches down hard around Harvey, rhythmic contractions racing through every muscle, like a fucking _seizure_, only full of pleasure and ecstasy and light instead of pain. His body shudders violently as Harvey fucks him through the aftershocks, trembling legs threatening to give out.

Then Harvey grunts, gasps, and says "God, _Mike_," as he comes, Mike's name like a benediction on his lips. Mike gasps through the sensation of Harvey's dick twitching inside of him, and they collapse onto the couch, Harvey still deeply embedded in him.

Harvey cleans him up after, once they've regained the ability to move. He smirks at the raw sound Mike makes when he pulls out, then gently wipes the lube and sweat and come from their bodies with a soft towel. It's startlingly intimate- somehow more intimate than fucking, than Harvey seeing him incapacitated by seizures. Mike breathes and blinks sleepily at Harvey, taking in the mussed hair and the flushed glow of his skin.

God, he's gorgeous.

More beautiful than any color Mike's ever seen.

TBC

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><p>AN: OMG YOU GUYS PORN. Yeah, so it took me twice as long to edit this chapter because 1.) My leg has been in serious pain the last two days and I broke down and took my narcotic painkillers, which make editing a very befuddled process (it generally goes something like "Hm, maybe I should expand on that paragaph a li- Oooh! Look! The internet! Shiiiiiiiiiny... Wait, what was I doing again? I want cookies.") And 2.) DID YOU HAPPEN TO NOTICE THE PORN? This is BY FAR the most detailed/involved sex scene I've done, and I am seriously freaking out about it a little. Part of me is all YEAH, GEH SEX!, part of me is OH SHIT I CAN'T WRITE SEX SCENES FOR CRAP WHAT AM I DOING?, part of me is FUCK, I HOPE MY DEAD GRANDMA IN HEAVEN CAN'T SEE WHAT I'M DOING RIGHT NOW, and part of me is just generally terrified that I took a half decent story and ruined it with shitty porn. I'M NOT GOOD AT THIS, YOU GUYS, THE WHOLE PUTTING IT ALL OUT THERE BIT. So, yeah. IDEK. I edited it and edited it and finally just decided fuck it, it's as good as it's going to get, it's in the internet porn gods' hands now. Please, please, please feel free to give con-crit if you've got it - I would love any feedback that enables me to improve this type of writing, since it's not exactly something we covered in HS English or my college creative writing classes. :)


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: The conclusion, folks! I'm so sorry it took me so long to post this last part - I ended up re-writing the whole chapter, and then I uploaded it to my LJ account and sort of… forgot… to upload it here. Sorry! I'm a scatterbrain! At any rate, I REALLY appreciate all the wonderful, kind comments that people have left me about this fic - you've made it so fun and rewarding! Thank you!

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><p>Mike knows he wanders around Pearson Hardman looking more than a little dumbstruck for about a week after he and Harvey have sex for the first time – in his defense, getting fucked senseless by Harvey Spector tends to shift one's internal geography a bit. Mike's preoccupied with redrawing borders, redefining where his life stops and Harvey's begins, where they're irrevocably, impossibly tangled up in one another. It's new, and strange, and confusing even without taking into consideration the mind-blowing sex.<p>

They already have a complicated relationship – Harvey is his boss, his mentor, his co-conspirator, his friend, and now… this. Mike doesn't know what to call this. They haven't really talked about what they're doing with each other – _lovers_ is too flowery, too cliché (it tastes like grape candy when he says it, too sweet), but _fuck buddies_doesn't even come close to encompassing what's between them. He feels like he should be bothered more by the fact that this is so ambiguous, so up in the air, but he's_not_. Even more oddly, Harvey doesn't seem to be, either.

Mike had half expected Harvey to present him with some sort of relationship contract, a notarized and iron-clad agreement addressing all the pertinent details:

_Each party shall agree that it is the responsibility of both parties to provide regular sexual contact to the point of mutual orgasm, no less than three times a week. Mr. Ross may keep up to three spare outfits and five essential toiletry items at the residence of Mr. Spector, with no more than one skinny tie allowed on the premises at any given time. Failure to abide by this stipulation may result in a justified withholding of the aforementioned sexual contact until the ratio of skinny-to-acceptable ties has been rectified. _

But Harvey doesn't draft any legal agreements, doesn't put any boundaires or limitations in place. In fact, Harvey seems… relaxed. More relaxed than Mike's ever seen him, voice smooth, undulating waves of color that rarely spike into the sharper shapes of stress these days.

Harvey's newfound _joie de vivre_is apparently noticeable to other people, as well.

Donna deduces that they're sleeping together within twenty seconds of seeing them their first Monday back at the office.

"Oh, thank _god_," she says (with, Mike thinks, more theatricality than is probably called for), "The unresolved sexual tension in this office was _smothering_ me. I mean _really_. I was beginning to be embarrassed for you both. Even _Louis_ picked up on it. _Louis_. I was days away from creating a PowerPoint presentation outlining all the reasons you two should be legally required to fuck, which would have seriously cut into my free time, so thank you for pulling your heads out of your own asses and relieving me of that task. Also, did you know there's a betting pool going on in the mailroom about when you two would finally make The Beast with Two Backs?"

"No there isn't," Harvey says, smiling indulgently at Donna while Mike, aghast, pictures seventy year-old Leonard down in the mailroom placing bets on Harvey sodomizing him. "Everyone knows that you control the gambling at Pearson Hardman, Donna," Harvey continues, "Leonard knows better than to mess with your turf."

"Damn right he does," Donna says with mock seriousness. She's not fooling anyone. Her voice is happy, happy teal, like blue-green bubbles that honestly look stunning with her red hair. Mike should tell her about the synesthesia, he thinks, so he can tell her how perfectly suited her colors are.

Donna adopts a fond, teasing look and raises one slim hand for a high-five. "Still," she says coyly to Harvey, "let me be the first to congratulate you on tapping Mike's sweet ass, boss."

Harvey rolls his eyes and walks into his office, ignoring Donna's indignant gasp as he leaves her hanging.

Mike flushes pink from his collar to his hairline, still trying to wrap his brain around the use of the phrase _Mike's sweet ass,_but when Donna winks and offers up a celebratory first-bump, Mike grins and reciprocates without hesitation.

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><p>Somehow, they figure it out without ever really having to figure it out. Everything just fits the way it should. Eventually, Mike spends more nights at Harvey's place than his own. A few toiletries in the medicine cabinet turn into more than half his things scattered throughout the condo – well-read books and scruffy Chuck Taylors and a plethora of skinny ties that make Harvey roll his eyes and purse his lips disapprovingly.<p>

Mike expected his stuff to look out of place here – too dirty, too cheap, too lacking in shine. But their two worlds sort of _blend,_ in a way that makes it all different and better than it was before. Mike brings color to Harvey's world, and there's a certain kismet in that. Mike's books have friction-softened corners that curl, but they flesh out Harvey's sparse shelving into something that is less clinical, more intimate. Mike's shoes are tread-worn pops of color in the otherwise uninterrupted black parade of Harvey's Italian leather, happy punctuation that says _you're not alone here._Mike's ties look thin and cheap on the rack in Harvey's closet, but Harvey still makes room for them there.

Mike smoothes over Harvey's too-crisp edges. Harvey polishes out Mike's rough spots.

They just _work_.

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><p>Four months after Mike stopped thinking of his old apartment as <em>home<em>, Pearson Hardman acquires Alexi Blancovtiz as a client. He's the heir to the Blancovitz Textiles empire, looking to revitalize the company after his father's passing. Aleix's brought Harvey (and therefore Mike) on as new counsel on retainer, for a sum that is frankly mindboggling. Mike wants to go cross-eyed just thinking about how much money the man is paying.

Mike had a hand in bringing him in to PH, so he gets to sit in on the meeting. (It might also have a little something to do with the enthusiastic blow job he woke Harvey with this morning, but it's mostly the research he spent all of last week doing. Really.)

Alexi is young and rich and powerful and he carries himself like a prince, all high chin and broad shoulders and the expectation of what he wants, when he wants it. Even his voice is money-green, piney and sure and far-reaching. He wears suits that are (dear god) possibly even more expensive than Harvey's - they look tailored down to the millimeter.

Sitting in the office watching Harvey and Alexi review the paperwork, Mike feels like a peasant.

Their voices ripple through the room like circling koi fish, evenly matched in power and capability, and in the rare moments when Mike speaks, his smoky blue words look like guppies trying to frantically avoid the vortex their tones create.

And Mike's never seen so much preening and adjusting of creases and cuffs in one room. It's like watching GQ magazine's 3D edition, or maybe some bizarre urban version of a nature show – _Powerful, Suave Men in their Natural Habitat_. He can practically _hear _David Attenborough narrating.

And Jesus, if either of them unbuttons and then re-buttons their jacket just _one more time_, Mike might scream.

Luckily he manages to maintain his composure for the duration of the meeting, only sighing and tugging at the itchy collar of his suddenly cheap-feeling suit _after_Alexi has glided from the room like a fucking dancer. Mike suspects that the man would manage to look graceful while falling down a flight of stairs, and it only makes him feel more awkward as he slumps against Harvey's desk.

"Good god, it was like a two-man Fashion Week in here, Harvey," he exclaims (voice wavering from smoke blue to exhausted navy). He can't help fidgeting with the crooked knot of his tie, suddenly hyper-aware of how off-center and sloppy it looks. "I half expected Tim Gunn to pop out of the ficus or something."

Harvey rolls his eyes (he does that a lot, which is funny because he's so fond of calling _Mike_childish, and Mike's pretty sure eye-rolling this often officially makes Harvey a pre-teen girl).

"Alexi happens to understand the value of a well-made suit," he says, stepping forward, knocking Mike's hand away from his tie, and tugging the knot out entirely. His lips are curled fondly as he begins to re-tie it, clever fingers sliding expertly over the fabric. He makes a soft, amused sound low in his throat as Mike squirms, and it's cherry red and quick, like a flower petal on a breeze.

"I felt like the ugly duckling stuck in a room with two swans," Mike says, chuckling, even as the truth of that statement makes something ache inside him.

Harvey's fingers pause, the tip of one clean, manicured nail smoothing the divot below the knot. He looks up at Mike, all the smugness gone from his mouth.

There is a moment of silence between them, empty of sound and color, then:

"He looked cheap next to you," Harvey says.

He shimmies the tie gently until it's snug against Mike's collar, smoothes the body of it against Mike's chest with the backs of his fingers. Mike looks down at himself, the off-the-rack suit, the polyester tie (the yellow one with little green owls that Harvey hates). He starts to ask Harvey if he's kidding,if this is meant to be sarcastic, but Harvey is looking at him with an expression that is absolutely certain, no trace of humor or mocking.

Mike's mouth goes dry and his chest tightens with an emotion he can't name, delicate and new and full of so much potential.

"Oh," he says weakly, and the sound drifts off like dandelion fluff. Because he's pretty sure Harvey just told him _I love you_(in his own strange, smart, emotionally constipated way). Harvey just told him that despite Mike's cheap suit and shitty shoes and lack of diamond cufflinks, Harvey sees something in him that is worth more than anything Alexi could wear or buy. It's touching and surprising (but sort of not, when he thinks about it) and breathtaking, and it takes Mike a moment to recover.

"And don't call me a swan," Harvey says, patting the side of his neck affectionately and moving away. His voice trails after him like a comet tail. "Swans are essentially just pretty turkeys – loud and annoying and stupid. All they do is squawk and shit everywhere. If you're going to compare me to an animal, go with something stunning but dangerous, like a panther."

Mike blinks at him for a moment, overwhelmed with the sudden desire to pin his back against the wall and kiss him. But this is Harvey's office, with glass walls, and while Donna would surely appreciate the show (seriously, the woman has no shame), they don't do this here where people could see and use it against them. This is something that they keep for themselves – a shared secret so much better than Mike's falsified qualifications.

So Mike just smiles at Harvey and tells him "A falcon. You'd be a falcon."

"Oh?" Harvey asks wryly, "And why is that?"

"Because," Mike says, "They're my favorite."

And judging by the fond way his lips curl up at the edges, Harvey gets the message.

* * *

><p>Harvey's voice is a deep, rich red.<p>

When he laughs, it's like magenta fireworks. It's brick red and umber with worry when he scolds Mike to _take your damn pills, you're like a lemming, no sense of self-preservation._ Best of all is the deep, sweet, wet red of freshly cut strawberries when he buries his face in the soft junction of Mike's jaw and throat and says _good morning_in a tone that means yes, Mike is about to have a _very_good morning, indeed.

Sometimes his voice tries to sound steely and blood red, but then his eyes shift to Mike and the color shifts to something more like sun-warmed crimson velvet, all the harsh tones bleached out of it.

When they fuck, the noises they make ripple out in red-blue-red-blue coronas, vibrant purple in the spaces where their voices overlap in harmonizing tones. Harvey lights up Mike's senses like Mike's brain is lined with phosperous, too bright to look at, burning hotter than anything he's ever felt, and so _so_good.

Sometimes at night, Harvey's voice is little more than a whisp of smoke bracketed by their lips pressed together in wet kisses, just enough hue to bridge the distance.

These are the moments that Mike likes best - when everything disappears but their two voices twined together, the whole night stretching out before them like a blank canvas, just waiting to be filled with color.

_fin_

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><p>AN: Thanks again for reading! I'm going to step away from this AU for a fic or two, just to get some space and cleanse my palate, so to speak, but then I'm planning on writing a tag to this fic from Harvey's POV, so stay tuned. :)


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